It's Something So Simple
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: John shouldn't be surprised when Sherlock hides his illness from him. Sherlock doesn't give into illness like most people. However... what started as a simple problem is turning into something much more painful... for both Sherlock and his consulting doctor.
1. Chapter 1

**It's Something So Simple...**

Sherlock reached for the doorframe of the room, trying to ignore the sudden wave of vertigo that had spun the world into a bizarre whirlwind.

"Sherlock?"

The consulting detective looked back at John, who was watching him warily.

Sherlock removed his hand from the doorframe, striding into the room.

"You okay?" John asked, following close behind.

Sherlock ignored his blogger, making his way to the crime scene. He wouldn't admit it to John, nor would he to anyone else, but he was progressively feeling more ill as the week carried on.

The fever had started last night. It was a low-grade, just in the thirty-eight region. The fact that he had a fever at all irked Sherlock more than any elusive fact, and he was desperate to get rid of it before it became obvious.

Fortunately, there had been a string of murders that had kept both he and John on the move, running hither and thither. It was bad for the fever, it was terrible for Sherlock's exhaustion, but it was a good distraction and John was too busy too notice Sherlock's illness.

Unfortunately, with the addition of the fever, Sherlock was finding it much more difficult to keep up his facade.

"Twenty-two. Her name's Allison."

"Allison?" Sherlock repeated, crouching next to the rocking chair where the body was situated.

"We don't know her last name. I.D. hasn't been found. We're still searching," Lestrade replied.

"Obviously," Sherlock retorted, leaning over to look at the note near the chair. It was in perfect line with the other murders that had occurred. "Any progress on fingerprinting the other crime scenes?"

"We're still working on it."

"Of course you are," Sherlock muttered, standing again. He paused after he stood, feeling a shiver threatening to break his calm. "Victim's a baby sitter. She watched three children, varying from the age of two to ten. Single, although has a pet cat. Strangulation marks around her neck are present, in line with the rest of the cases. Scratching is also visible; she struggled. There's dried blood under his fingernails, take that to the lab and you should be able to get a positive I.D. on the suspect."

He turned away, walking to the door.

"Wait, that's it?" Lestrade asked.

"That's all you need to know," Sherlock replied.

"Sh- See you, Greg- Sherlock!" John said. "Wait up!"

Sherlock did not 'wait up'. He strode ahead of John, making way for the exit. There were too many people milling about the crime scene, and with Sherlock's upset stomach, the last thing he wanted was a bunch of people milling about.

"Hey, that's all? You're not going to fascinate us all with your genius deductions?" John asked, falling in step beside him. "We get that she's a babysitter and has a cat? That's not up to par, Sherlock, so what's going on?"

"What's going on where?" Sherlock replied, pulling his coat closer. "It's just another display of New Scotland Yard's stupidity. They didn't need me to come to the scene when the answer was staring them in the face. Now, they'll I.D. the suspect and have him in custody and the case will be over; how dull."

A flash of pain accompanied the statement and he swallowed, feeling his fingers twitch towards the point of pain. He clenched his hands into fists and placed them in his pockets, picking up his pace.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock ignored him, keeping his eyes fixated on the point that was the road in front of him.

"Sherlock- Sherlock, no," John interrupted, suddenly stepping in front of him. Sherlock looked down at him, frowning. "Tell me what's wrong," John said, gripping Sherlock's arm.

This was the problem with a fever. As his illness intensified, so did John's observational skills. And John was finally noticing, unfortunately, that something was wrong with Sherlock.

Sherlock swallowed back a groan, walking away from John. "I'm fine, John. Please."

"You're pale, Sherlock. And you look like you're about to puke all over the place," John continued.

Sherlock, not appreciating John's lack of tact, swallowed reflexively and continued walking.

"I'll figure it out, you know.

"I'd be impressed if you did," Sherlock replied, albeit with less contempt that he usually spoke with.

"I am a doctor, after all," John said, following Sherlock again. "And I'll figure it out. Or you'll complain to me when it, whatever _it_ is, starts to get to you."

"I don't complain."

"Please, you always complain. Anyway... Shall we get dinner? I'm in the mood for-"

"No," Sherlock interrupted sharply. John looked at him. "I'm not hungry," Sherlock muttered.

"You're _never_ hungry, but I want dinner."

"Have dinner, then," Sherlock retorted in annoyance. The pounding in his temples was starting to get to him. "I'm going home."

John was watching him too closely. Nothing made Sherlock Holmes awkward, but this was the closest thing that he got to it. John wasn't intelligent, not by any means, but he was staring at him... _analyzing_ him. Sherlock was used to being the one who analyzed people, not the one who was being analyzed.

"Okay..." John said slowly. "Okay, but if you need anything, call me, yeah?"

"Why would I need anything?" Sherlock retorted.

But, when John turned the corner, walking to the Italian restaurant, Sherlock slumped against the street lamp and closed his eyes.

* * *

**Well, since I finished two stories, I had an idea for another story... I realize I have other stories, as well, so don't worry; I haven't forgotten about them. My muse simply works with whatever idea it wants to.**

**So, yes! The real illness hasn't been stated yet... Sherlock may have a fever, but that's due to something else.**

**Favourites and follows, as well as reviews, are appreciated. Thank you!**


	2. Chapter 2

John wasn't sure what, but there was something wrong with Sherlock Holmes.

John speared a piece of penne pasta, staring at it idly.

Sherlock rarely snapped at him. Something had to be very wrong with his friend for him to even raise his voice, let alone snap at John. But the _'Have dinner, then!'_ that Sherlock had retorted, sounding angry, kept echoing in John's mind and he wondered what he was missing.

His doctor instincts were screaming at him to go home and find out what was wrong with the consulting detective. However, his instincts as Sherlock's friend were telling him that if he pried, Sherlock would only shrink further in on himself.

So, John had decided to eat dinner out and then he would go home. He wasn't rushing and Sherlock would have some time to his own devices.

He believed, partially, that if it, whatever _it_ was, got too bad, Sherlock would give in and ask John for, well, not help, but... Of course, depending on what _it_ was, waiting might be worse for Sherlock than just demanding to know what was wrong. (Although, as proven, demanding to know what was wrong got John nowhere, either.)

The facts, then.

Sherlock had grabbed ahold of the doorframe when they walked into the crime scene. John suspected that Sherlock was dizzy, or at least lightheaded. He was more pale than he usually was, and he had looked like he had been about to be sick. So, nausea, then. Sherlock had also flinched earlier when John had accidentally slammed the flat door. He was sensitive to loud noises, it seemed. And there were dark shadows under the detective's eyes; not sleeping seemed to be the only conclusion. Of course, Sherlock didn't sleep often during a case anyway, so John couldn't rely on that.

He also hadn't been eating, John realized as he paid for his own dinner. While this wasn't uncommon for the sleuth, he had been avoiding meals more readily. He had interrupted defiantly when John had _mentioned_ dinner. Definitely nauseous, but John hadn't noticed that before today and Sherlock hadn't been eating at all. He'd been drinking a lot of tea, maybe moreso than usual, John reckoned, but not eating.

John hailed a cab, frowning as he tried to ascertain what was ailing the consulting detective. To him, it sounded like the common cold, well, fever, but without other details, John couldn't be for sure. And he was sure that Sherlock wouldn't give him those facts until they became too demanding to handle.

The cab ride to Baker Street was silent and fraught with John failing at deducing his friend's illness. He paid the fare and unlocked their front door, wondering what he'd find when he walked into their flat.

What he did find was Sherlock curled up in his chair, his knees drawn close to his chest and his chin resting on his knees. His eyes were fixated on the television, which was on, but John knew better than to believe that Sherlock was watching the crap sci-fi that was airing.

"You okay?" he asked again, as he hung up his coat.

Sherlock jumped slightly, looking over his shoulder. "What? Yes. What are you doing home? I thought you were eating."

"Yeah, that was a half hour ago," John said, frowning. "I wish you'd just tell me what's wrong."

"There's nothing wrong; why must you make such a big deal on trivial matters that are clearly not important?"

Sherlock's spiel was flawless, except he flinched again after he had finished speaking. He swallowed and looked around, seeming to not find what he was looking for.

"What do you need?" John asked.

"Tea..." Sherlock murmured, resting his head back on his knees.

"Any reason that you've been drinking so much tea lately?" John asked as he prepared to make the detective a cuppa.

"What?"

"You usually can't be bothered to eat nor drink. So, what's with all the tea?"

"Dehydrated," Sherlock replied aimlessly.

John thought that Sherlock's facade was wavering, crashing to bits around his ears, but he wisely did not comment on the subject again. Instead, he just made that cuppa for Sherlock and, not commenting on how drinking a lot of tea wasn't going to help hydrate him as much as plain water would, sank into his own chair to watch the sci-fi programme.

Sherlock seemed to shiver at one point, although he made no fuss. He didn't move, asides from taking sips of his tea, but John was now carefully watching him. He was pale and withdrawn, and the doctor could see Sherlock shivering not long after first noticing the initial shiver.

Finally, when the sci-fi was over and Sherlock's teacup long empty, John spoke up.

"Go to bed, Sherlock. You're clearly exhausted."

Sherlock opened his eyes (he had closed them awhile ago, a clear sign that he wasn't watching the film), looking at John. "I'm thinking, not exhausted."

"Then you must be exhausted of thinking; go to bed."

Sherlock sighed heavily, raising his head and stretching out. "I'm never tired of thinking, unlike some people I know," he muttered, but he seemed to be taking John's advice to heart as he stood and trudged to the kitchen. He set his teacup on the counter (not in the sink... never in the sink), ruffling his hair as he walked back to his bedroom.

Deciding that, while Sherlock was clearly ill, a good night's rest might do the detective some good (and even moreso if the stubborn detective decided to take some paracetamol, which he probably wouldn't). If Sherlock looked worse in the morning, John would bring it up. If Sherlock seemed to be better, John wouldn't comment on it, but just keep a close eye on him.

It couldn't be so bad. If it was so bad, Sherlock wouldn't be running around trying to solve cases or keep up his facade while he was at home, right?

Unfortunately, John realized, as he decided him to make himself a cup of chamomile before bed, Sherlock would do exactly just that.

* * *

**First, the secret behind Sherlock's illness will be revealed in the next chapter (to the readers at least; not to John).**

**Secondly, if anyone reading this happens to be thinking 'Oh GREAT, _another_ sick!fic', please do not feel obliged to read this or anything else that I write. I like writing sick!fics, (to be clear, I do not like seeing people sick or in pain in real life. I simply like Doctor John and Sherlock's defenses being down), and if you don't care to read sick!fic after sick!fic, then I'm probably not your writer... That all being said, thank you to those who still love reading my sick!fics. Your support is so important! :)**

**Thank you!**


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock slept fitfully.

He knew that it was John's instincts that had told him to go to bed, and Sherlock hadn't really complained for once. He had been bloody well knackered, to be honest, and the pain and the fever made him just want to fall asleep.

Unfortunately, the pain and the fever also kept him awake.

Around ten in the morning, Sherlock was faced with the decision of getting out of bed, although he didn't feel like it, or waiting to see if John would check in on him because he had stayed in bed so late. Neither was an option he wanted to explore...

He decided to get up and, if not have breakfast, at least have another cup of tea. (And John was catching on about the tea... That was another thing; drinking copious amounts of tea made it impossible to avoid needing the toilet in annoying frequency.)

So, tiredly, Sherlock hauled himself out of bed and shuffled to the kitchen.

John was, of course, awake already.

"Oh, you're finally awake. Post-case crash?" the doctor asked, not looking up from his copy of The Sun.

Sherlock didn't respond, only poured himself a cup of tea from the teapot. The tea was cold, however, so he ended up placing his mug into the microwave, thus buying John more time to realize something was wrong.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock sighed heavily. "What, John?"

"Thought perhaps you weren't speaking..."

"Well, I am speaking. Although, I very well may not, if you keep bothering me."

"Bothering you?" John's tone was incredulous. "How am I bothering you?"

Sherlock didn't respond, just retrieved his mug from the microwave and shuffled back to the bedroom.

He didn't know why he had snapped at John. Sherlock knew it was in his own best interests that John asked in the first place. He _knew_ that, but yet, he simply hated it when John tried to be his doctor. He simply did not _have_ a doctor. He did not _need_ a doctor.

What he really needed was his steaming hot cup of tea.

Sherlock took a gulp of the steaming tea, closing his eyes at the relaxing warmth.

He walked back to his bed, setting his mug on the bedside table. He then turned and walked into the bathroom, taking a few moments to take care of his transport. (His transport that was steadily being assailed with aches, pains, and a fever, mind.) He decided to skip the shower for the moment, lest his tea get cold, so he walked back to his bedroom after washing his hands.

John was leaning against the doorframe when Sherlock shuffled back in.

Sherlock resisted the urge to groan.

"Look, I can see you're sick, so tell me what's wrong. At least take some paracetamol."

Sherlock picked up his mug again, breathing in the vapours of Earl Grey. "I took some last night."

"Take some more now. Whatever you have isn't going to go away thanks to one dose of medication."

Sherlock shook his head, regretting the movement. "Go away, John."

"Look, I'm just trying to help you."

"Then leave me alone."

"Not until you tell me what's wrong."

Sherlock simply decided to ignore John, as he had been. His flatmate would give up soon enough, given Sherlock could prove he was fine.

Even though he was feeling less and less fine by the moment.

He turned and walked back to the sitting room, being careful not to trip on the clutter of magazines and newspapers littering the floor. The recent case had kept them busy, and while it pained Sherlock to think it... He was almost glad that the case was over. He was getting too miserable to go parading through crime scenes.

Something had to be done...

John, unsurprisingly, followed him.

The telly was on and Sherlock directed his gaze at it. He rarely ever watched telly, unless it the reality programmes that John had gotten him into, but it made for a distraction against a worrying flatmate. Sherlock tried to focus on the words and plot of the drama programme that was currently on, but he found that he simply couldn't.

At some point, the nausea swelled back up into something uncontrollable, and when Sherlock took a sip of his tea to wash away the urge to vomit, it simply made it worse.

He only just managed to keep from pressing his hand to his mouth and running to the bathroom.

That being said, he stood abruptly, earning a worried glance from John, and walked quickly back to the bathroom. He closed the door before firmly pressing his hand over his mouth, reaching for the shower with his free hand.

With the shower on, Sherlock quickly made for the toilet to vomit. The water falling in the shower would mask the sound of his vomiting, even though he knew this shower trick would only last perhaps once more during the day.

He really hoped the vomiting wasn't going to become a continuous symptom.

Sherlock shivered, cupping his face in his hands. He pressed the heels of his hands against either of his jaws, closing his eyes.

And that was what everything stemmed off of.

His teeth.

What had started out as a painful toothache was now a painful infection. And truth be told, it wasn't a normal toothache. Sherlock took wonderful care of his teeth- hygiene was wholly important- so he had been mildly surprised to wake up with a toothache one morning. He had taken some paracetamol and forgotten promptly about it, what with the case.

And it had been on and off pain, until it _really_ started bothering him last week. And that's when he'd noticed that something was _really_ a bit not good.

Impacted wisdom teeth, he thought.

(He'd done a bit of research when he realized it wasn't a normal toothache.)

And, _hell_, did they hurt.

Sherlock had resorted to drinking lots and lots of tea, because the heat helped the pain. He also let ice chips dissolve in his mouth, to numb the pain, when he knew John wasn't paying attention. But, the pain always returned and it always hurt just as badly.

The toothache-turned-wisdom-teeth problem had taken another turn not long ago, and that was to develop an infection. That made _everything_ worse.

Now he had a fever. He was alternating between shivering and sweating, nausea was accompanying the pain, and he couldn't get a good night's rest because laying down made his entire jaw ache. He had resorted to propping up his pillows a bit and sneaking a cooler of ice into his bedroom to press a makeshift icepack against his jaw at night.

Of course, he refused to tell John.

John was a doctor.

Sherlock needed a dentist.

Sherlock groaned as he stood up. The pain was nearly overwhelming at this point, and he really had a good pain tolerance. Unfortunately, impacted wisdom teeth could only be fixed with surgery, and surgery was something that Sherlock neither had time or patience for.

He shed his clothes clumsily, deciding that he ought to take a shower anyway, since he had turned the water on. Despite his aching transport demanding for a relaxing, hot shower, Sherlock kept the temperature of the water cooler than normal. He _did_ have a fever, even though he hadn't taken his temperature, and he really didn't want it to rise. He was feeling terrible enough as it was, without having to deal with that.

When he decided that the shower was pointless- it didn't relax him and he was still shivering and covered in gooseflesh- Sherlock turned the water off. He picked up his towel and quickly dried off, trying to keep his teeth from chattering as he dressed in his dressing gown. He strode back to his bedroom and found a long-sleeved tee and some warm pyjama pants before redressing.

Still searching for warmth, Sherlock promptly drew his dressing gown back on, over his clothes, and crawled into bed. He snuggled down into the blankets, drawing the duvet close.

And that was how Sherlock fell back asleep: hair still damp, pillows propped up, blankets to his chin, shivering, and with a massive toothache that was only getting worse...

* * *

**If anybody guessed this, you have a wonderful imagination. Secondly, I know _nothing_ about dentistry (although I've been to the dentist so much that I _should_ know a lot, but I'm only familiar with fillings and root canals and x-rays...), so overlook anything that may not be technically correct.**

**(And for those wondering... yes... Sherlock _is_ going to be a bit not-himself after the surgery. So, humour? Hmhm...)**

**Thanks!**


	4. Chapter 4

"Sherlock, are you going to get up?" John asked, standing outside of Sherlock's closed bedroom door.

His stubborn flatmate was really starting to make him worry. Granted, when it involved Sherlock, he worried needlessly, he supposed, but... he was his best friend. Best friends worried, even if Sherlock wouldn't understand that.

There was a muffled grunt in reply.

"What does that mean? Is that a 'no' or a 'yes'?" John asked, resisting the urge to sigh. The fact that Sherlock was being more stubborn than usual meant _something_ was happening. And, in this case, it involved something to do with the detective's health.

Sherlock didn't respond.

"Okay. Do you want lunch, then?"

"No..." Sherlock groaned.

"You need to eat something, no matter what's wrong with you," John replied and, without pausing, pushed Sherlock's bedroom door open.

The consulting detective was curled up under the blankets, only the top of his curly black hair sticking out from under the blankets.

"Can't," Sherlock's voice said.

"And why not?"

"Sick," was the pathetic sounding reply.

The fact that Sherlock was admitting that he was sick was a case enough for alarm, John reckoned, but he chose not to dwell on that fact. He needed to first figure out what was wrong with the detective before he worried.

"And are you going to tell me what's wrong with you, or not?"

Sherlock's reply was muffled in the blankets and John wasn't entirely sure if Sherlock hadn't meant it to be.

"Sorry," John said dryly, "you're going to have to speak up a bit, yeah?"

"I can't chew..."

Whatever John had expected Sherlock's reasoning behind not eating to be, he surely hadn't expected that.

"Why can't you chew?" John asked, stepping into Sherlock's room. He was trying to think of possible solutions to this problem, but he really couldn't.

"My teeth..." Sherlock groaned.

No more than Sherlock had uttered that, and certainly not long enough for John to understand what Sherlock really meant by that, the consulting detective pushed the blankets away.

He looked miserable.

"You're going to have to explain what you mean, Sherlock," John said, walking over to the bed and placing his hand on Sherlock's forehead. The detective didn't argue and it wouldn't have mattered, anyway; Sherlock's flushed cheeks and pale skin, along with the sweating, was a sure sign of a fever.

"... Wisdom teeth..."

John stopped, looking at him. "Excuse me?"

"My wisdom teeth, John, my wisdom teeth! They're being... stupid."

"They're not having much wisdom, then?" John replied dryly. The look on Sherlock's face immediately made him want to take those words back, so he continued relentlessly: "What's wrong with them?"

"Impacted..." Sherlock murmured, hugging the blankets closer.

"Oh," John said lamely. He wasn't a dentist, but he had heard terrible stories about people having to get their wisdom teeth out to know that 'impacted' wasn't a good sign. It was one of those things that just meant 'yeah, you'll have to have those teeth out', which was never good, even if Sherlock was a consulting detective and self-appointedly above everyone else.

"Infected..." was the whisper that followed.

John frowned, looking more closely at the detective. It made sense now, now that it was all there in front of him. Sherlock had a fever, he was dizzy, the lack of appetite and now the hot tea all made perfect sense. John had guessed an illness, and he hadn't technically guessed an infection, not of this sort, but it all boiled down to the same thing:

Sherlock was sick.

"Infected... you clot. How long have they been hurting you?"

Sherlock shrugged a shoulder, closing his eyes suddenly.

"Sherlock?"

"Dizzy..." Sherlock whispered.

"That's part of the infection... Jeez, Sherlock, why didn't you tell me? Have you taken paracetamol?"

John turned away, pushing open the bathroom door. He rummaged through the cabinet to find the medication, coming up with empty hands. Annoyed, he closed the cabinet door and found the bottle of medicine sitting on the countertop.

Sighing, John returned to the bedroom.

"... You're a doctor..." Sherlock mumbled.

"Yes, what of it?" John asked, popping the top off the bottle.

"Need a dentist..." Sherlock continued.

"Don't you think you ought to have called one, then?" He took one glance at Sherlock, who just pulled the blankets ever closer. "Oh, let me guess... You couldn't be bothered."

"It's surgery, John," Sherlock grumbled, opening his eyes again.

"And it's the only way that you're going to get rid of it... You already have an infection, you..." John trailed off, shaking his head. "Have you had any of these in the past six hours?" he asked, holding up the paracetamol. Sherlock shook his head. "Good," John said, handing the pills to Sherlock. "And if you don't get antibiotics, you're going to become seriously ill. You need to get rid of the cause of the infection _and_ the infection itself."

Sherlock had taken the pills and swallowed them without water, shuffling further under the blankets.

John looked at him again and couldn't help his instinct that swelled up; Sherlock was sick, he was a patient, and John wanted to help him. He was _so_ used to lecturing the detective that it was second nature, but he just had to see the pure agony in Sherlock's gaze to make him take a breath and reanalyze.

"Look, I'll call your dentist," he continued, although less demanding now. "I know it's a pain but it's not going to go away on its own."

"... Fine..." Sherlock seemed awfully sulky, for a man with impacted and infected wisdom teeth. Of course, it only made John fight a smile at the childish behaviour.

"Who's your dentist, then?"

Sherlock didn't respond.

"Sherlock."

"I don't have one."

John blinked. "You don't... you don't have a dentist."

Sherlock shook his head.

"You haven't had a check-up. A filling or a cleaning or anything?"

Sherlock shook his head again.

"I don't know if I should be impressed or upset..." John muttered. "I'll call my dentist, then, and get you an appointment with him."

John was just about to turn and walk out, when he caught sight of Sherlock's curls trembling. He was probably shivering, John realized; he was probably freezing from the fever.

"Is there anything else I can get you...?" he asked, albeit a bit awkwardly. It _was_ his instinct to treat his patient, but Sherlock was never something as simple as his patient. He didn't exactly know how to handle the situation without Sherlock sulking, or clamming up, or becoming angry. He didn't want to straight out mollycoddle him, but he still wanted to help the aloof detective.

"... Tea?"

"Does cold help with the pain?" John asked.

"... Hurts at first, but it numbs it."

"Can I get you something cold, then? A smoothie or something? I know the heat will help to dull the pain, too, but you've got a fever. Hot liquids will not help."

"Fine..." Sherlock paused. "No smoothies, though. Vanilla milkshake."

"Alright. Be back in a bit..."

John walked out of Sherlock's room, sighing quietly. Wisdom teeth... And John thought that the detective complained a lot on a normal day. This was going to be hell... although the annoyance he would feel at Sherlock complaining (which he inevitably would) probaby had nothing on the pain that Sherlock was feeling.

John also tried not to dwell on the fact that Sherlock had never been to the dentist. Everyone got nervous during their first visit to the dentist's office, and Sherlock's first visit was going to be having his wisdom teeth out. It was not going to be a positive experience, John was sure.

He rummaged around a bit to find his mobile, scanning through his contacts to find his dentist's office. Sending the call, he walked to the fridge.

_"Hello, this is Doctor Evans office. Dana speaking, how may I help you?"_

"Oh, hey Dana," John greeted, searching for the ice cream in the freezer. "John Watson here."

_"John! How lovely to talk to you. You're not scheduling an appointment, are you? Your last check-up was just last month..."_

"I need to schedule an appointment for a friend of mine, actually," he said, finally finding the vanilla ice cream and fishing it out. "He's a new patient, but he doesn't have a dentist and I know Dr. Evans is pretty good about that."

_"Oh, yes, of course. What's his name?"_

"Sherlock Holmes."

_"The consulting detective? Not the one you blog about?"_

"The one and only." John grabbed a mug from the cupboard, rinsing it out. "He's got impacted wisdom teeth. He says that they're infected, too, and I have no reason to doubt him. He has a fever and he looks miserable."

_"Alright... How long has this been going on?"_

"I have no idea, actually... Hang on a sec." Abandoning making the milkshake, John walked back to Sherlock's room. "Hey, you never did tell me how long your teeth have hurt."

Sherlock was hiding under the blankets again, but he muttered an "awhile" through the fabric.

John sighed. "Sherlock, the dentist needs to know."

Sherlock resurfaced again, his eyes searching, apparently for John's mobile. When he realized that John was on the phone, he sighed. "It started a few weeks ago, but it really started hurting last week..."

John repeated that to Dana.

_"Does he know which teeth?"_

"My wisdom teeth," Sherlock replied in annoyance, after John had asked.

"I _know_," John muttered, covering the mouthpiece of his mobile, "but which _ones_?"

"Upper jaw... I think." Sherlock looked momentarily distraught. "Everything hurts... It hurts to talk," he mumbled.

"He thinks it's the upper jaw. I'd say that it's more than one, but then, I'm not a dentist." John turned and walked back to the kitchen. "Can the Doctor get him in soon? I don't like the fact that he has an infection, and he won't even get out of bed... I want to get some antibiotics for him, at the very least."

_"Well, we're really booked... but with this case, the Doctor might make an exception. Especially with one of the Holmes Brothers. Let me talk to Robert and I'll get back with you."_

"Thanks, Dana..." John muttered.

It was only after their call had ended and John was heading back to Sherlock's room with the vanilla milkshake that he realized Dana had said _'one of the Holmes Brothers_'. John wondered, with some disbelief, if Mycroft actually went to his dentist.

"Here," John said. Sherlock resurfaced from the blankets yet again and John handed him the mug. "Dana's talking to the doctor and she's going to get back with me. I'm trying to get you in as soon as possible."

Sherlock just stirred his milkshake idly, staring into it as though it held the answers to this predictament.

John didn't know what to say or what to do, so he just turned around and walked back to the kitchen to clean up the mess.

He was drying a mountain of dishes that had been forming when his mobile chimed. He quickly picked up.

"Hello?"

_"Does tomorrow evening work for you? It'll have to be after hours, but the Doctor said he'd do it."_

"Oh, yes, that's great. Wonderful. Thank you so much, Dana, really. Tell Robert 'thanks' as well," John breathed, leaning against the counter. "I'll let him know."

_"Not a problem, John. We'll see you tomorrow at 8:30."_

"Right, thanks. See ya."

John ended the call, frowning slightly as he placed his mobile onto the countertop. He didn't know what it was, or why it happened... but one mention of the Holmes Brothers and anything could happen. Mycroft's (John assumed it had something to do with Mycroft) name was an all-access pass, even to the dentist's office.

Really, though, with impacted wisdom teeth, John didn't expect Sherlock to complain.

... Too much.

* * *

**In response to a review, I feel I must explain this scenario a bit to clear up any confusion. **

**I understand that wisdom teeth generally are extracted earlier, in the 15 to 24 year old range, I believe. However, as another reviewer mentioned, it is not impossible for older people to have their wisdom teeth extracted. (This is also where I meant the 'ignore technicalities' to stand.) Secondly, infected impacted wisdom teeth are not uncommon, as far as I can tell. As stated by the AAOMS, "If left in the mouth, impacted wisdom teeth may damage neighboring teeth, or become infected". When I said that I do not know anything about dentistry, I was being honest, but that does not mean that I do not research before I write a story.**

**So, hopefully that clears up any confusion!**

**Thanks! =)**


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock shivered, drawing his coat closer.

It was freezing in the dentist's office.

He was absolutely positive that it hadn't been so cold at the flat.

Sherlock shivered again, drumming his fingers against the armrest of the chair.

The lobby of the dentist's office was nearly empty now, as it was nearly closing time. John had explained how the procedure would last until after closing time, but Sherlock found that he liked it better that way. The less people that were around, the better.

It was nearly humiliating to be at the dentist's, anyway, but...

The pain had intensified to the point where it hurt to eat or drink or even talk, and he couldn't sleep, and nothing helped.

And he had only given in to John's questioning because he was tired of hearing the doctor thinking about it, so much. It was _so_ annoying... and it made his head hurt.

Every so often, the sound of a drill buzzing floated to the waiting room.

Sherlock's stomach was in knots.

He didn't know why.

Ultimately, he blamed it on the infection and he really wished that it would go away, because the nausea hadn't vanished and, with every shiver, he fought the urge to vomit.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock glanced over at John, who had been paging through an outdated magazine, but whom was now looking at him.

John pointedly looked at Sherlock's fingers, which were still tapping the armrest.

Sherlock curled his fingers into his palm, sitting up straighter.

"It's okay to be nervous."

Sherlock scoffed. "I'm not nervous."

It was honesty; he did not get nervous. He didn't get bothered with such triviality as nerves, and therefore, he had no idea what being nervous felt like. But he was certain that it did not feel like having a fever or the flu.

"It's your first time at the dentist, thirty-something years old or not. You're bound to be nervous, even if you won't admit it."

Sherlock ignored John, opting, instead, to look towards the desk as the sound of the drill reached his ears again.

"They're going to put you under and when you wake up, your wisdom teeth will be gone and you can get over this illness," John said.

Sherlock curled his other hand into a fist, shivering again as his stomach roiled.

"Just take a deep breath."

"What for?" he retorted, looking back at John.

"To relax."

"I'm not upset!"

He clenched his teeth together (which was ultimately a mistake), closing his eyes against the nausea.

"Okay. Yeah. You're clearly not upset," John muttered, and Sherlock heard him go back to flipping through the magazine.

Sherlock kept his eyes closed.

What seemed like ages later, he was bothered by someone saying his name.

"Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock opened his eyes, glancing towards the nurse standing in the lobby.

"See you in a bit," John commented.

Sherlock glanced at him. "You're just going to sit there?"

John glanced up. "Well, I'm bloody well not going to watch them take out your teeth." He seemed to realize what he had said, because he added "Yes, I'm going to sit here, and read, and watch some telly. You'll be fine."

"Of course I'll be fine," Sherlock retorted, standing and sweeping his coat behind him. "Why wouldn't I be fine?"

On some subconscious level, he was honestly asking that question.

"On the file you filled out earlier, you didn't specify any allergies," said the nurse, "so you don't have any?"

"That would be why I didn't specify any, wouldn't it?" Sherlock retorted.

"Just checking. So, this is your first visit to the dentist in awhile?"

"Obviously."

"Okay... Here we are, in here, please," she said, ushering him into the room. "Take a seat. Would you like me to take your coat?"

"No," Sherlock said sharply. It was already freezing; he didn't want to imagine what the office felt like with his coat off, although John hadn't been complaining.

"Okay. Have a seat."

Sherlock sat down hesitantly, stretching his legs out.

"Impacted wisdom teeth, then?" the nurse asked, picking up some equipment. Sherlock tried to assess what exactly was all lying on the countertop, but the nurse stepped into his line of vision. "Can I have a look?"

With a sigh, Sherlock dropped his head back onto the uncomfortable head rest and opened his mouth. Pain aside, he felt ridiculous.

"Hm," said the nurse, after a moment of looking and a bit of poking around with a sharpened instrument. "Upper wisdom teeth... Lower right, if I'm not wrong, too..."

Sherlock ran his tongue over the lower right part of his mouth, trying to judge for himself just whether or not she was right. Sadly, he couldn't tell. When he had told John that everything hurt, he hadn't been exaggerating.

"The doctor will be with you momentarily. Would you like the television on?"

"No," Sherlock repeated, drawing his legs up again. It was impossible to get _comfortable_...

"Okay then. Doctor Evans will be right with you."

Sherlock was left with silence.

He tapped his fingers on the armrest for a moment before glancing at the medical equipment on the counter. Unfortunately, looking at so many sharp instruments made his stomach queasy again, and silently hoping that the infection would go away soon, he fished his mobile out of his pocket.

_This is tedious._  
_S_

Moments later, John responded with a simple:

_This is the dentist's._

Not particularly satisfied, Sherlock was about to text John that he wanted to go back home, and that he'd figure out something for his teeth on his own, when the nurse returned with what Sherlock could only guess was the dentist.

"Good evening, Mr. Holmes. Judith says you've got a few impacted wisdom teeth. Let me get a look and we'll get busy with the extraction. Do you want us to explain what we'll be doing?"

"No," Sherlock said again, before relinquishing speech to allow for the dentist to look at his teeth.

"I concur with you, Judith. Okay, Mr. Holmes, we'll be putting you under now. When you wake up, you'll feel groggy and there will be pain for some time, and you'll need to keep up with the antibiotics, but the worst of the pain will go away very soon. I'll give you some information on post-op recovery to take home and read when you like."

"Right," Sherlock said, looking out the window.

"We're going to go with general anesthesia, via intramuscular injection. We were told that that would be the best method."

"Yes, fine."

Sherlock watched with little interest as the dentist prepared the syringe.

"You'll start to feel relaxed within minutes. Don't try to fight the drowsiness," the dentist advised.

Sherlock didn't bother to respond.

"I suggest counting. It will relax your mind," the dentist said, after he had finished with the injection and disposed of the needle.

Choosing not to say that counting would not relax his mind in the slightest, Sherlock just closed his eyes and did as he was told.

_One..._

_Two..._

_Three..._

Surprisingly, it didn't take long for his mind _to_ relax.

_Thirty-six..._

_Thirty-seven..._

_Thirty-eight..._

Sherlock couldn't find the ambition to open his eyes. He was much too tired, and he didn't want to open his eyes to face the pain again.

_One hundred..._

_One hundred one..._

_One hundred two..._

He slumped a little lower in the chair, wearily counting in time with the clock ticking on the wall.

_One-thirty..._

_One-thirty-one..._

_One-thirty-two..._

He was tired... How was he ever going to get back to the flat if he was so tired...?

_One... eighty-one..._

_One... eighty-two..._

_One... eighty... three..._

* * *

**Sometimes, I really feel ridiculous when I write in Sherlock's POV. He doesn't understand the simplest things sometimes. Like being nervous. =p**

**Thanks!**


	6. Chapter 6

John thought it was best not to tell Sherlock of all the complications that could arise.

The older you were when you got your wisdom teeth out, the more complicated the extraction could be. And since Sherlock already had an infection...

John was nervous and he was just the one sitting in the waiting room.

"John?"

He glanced up. One of the nurses, Judith, was in the doorway, looking tired and annoyed, but smiling all the same.

John glanced reflexively at his watch. Every minute that had ticked by, he had worried more and more about the consulting detective.

Now, it seemed, the surgery was _finally_ over with.

"You can take Sherlock home."

"Did everything go alright?" John asked, turning the television off and standing. "He didn't argue much?"

"Oh, no, he was a model patient," Judith said. (John found this hard to believe.) "He was unconscious quite quickly and he's still asleep. He didn't even so much as sigh during the procedure. You may want to come back, though. It's better for a patient to wake up with someone he knows nearby."

John nodded, following after her.

It didn't take long for Sherlock to wake up.

"... John...?" Sherlock mumbled, shifting his position a bit. The detective attempted to raise his hand, but it simply flopped back onto the armchair.

"You're okay, Sherlock," John said, encouragingly.

"... John..." Sherlock repeated, finally raising his head. It took a few delayed seconds, but Sherlock finally blinked his eyes open.

John smiled faintly. The detective looked groggy and exhausted... and very confused. Confusion was a strange look to see in Sherlock's eyes. "Yes, Sherlock...?"

Sherlock's gaze slowly swivelled to John, meeting his gaze. "John..."

Resisting the urge to either laugh or continuing saying Sherlock's name, just to see how long this little back and forth could continue, John leaned forward a bit. "I'm right here."

"... Mph..." Sherlock murmured, dropping his head onto the headrest again.

John struggled to keep a straight face. "Come on, Sherlock. Let's go home, yeah? You can sleep then."

"Joh..." Sherlock paused, raising his head again. "Yikes..."

John followed his gaze to the darkened window, blinking a bit. "Er... yeah. Sorry, but if you start saying 'Jenkies', I'm just going to leave you here."

Sherlock stared at him unrecognizably for moment before struggling to his feet. He immediately swayed and John jumped up to steady him.

"Careful..."

"221b... Baker Street," Sherlock muttered.

"Yes, that's our flat, but wait until we're in the cab..."

"B... B... Bee... Honeybees and... and... Oh, John... I feel funny..."

Sherlock leaned heavily against John's bad shoulder and John struggled to maintain the detective's weight. "Yeah," he said, shifting Sherlock's weight a bit, "that's why you need to get home and rest."

"You... are the bessst... sst... partner," Sherlock said bluntly.

Inexplicably, John felt his face rush to a terribly hot temperature, straight from his scalp to his ears and down his neck.

"Colleague," he said to Judith, resisting the urge to splutter at Sherlock. He instead focussed on getting him to remember how to _walk_, since he certainly could talk. "Come on, Sherlock, budge up. You need rest and recovery."

Sherlock grumbled a bit, but John managed to get him into a cab without much more trouble. Much.

The cab ride, however, was another story.

From the moment that John managed to coax the confused detective into the cab, Sherlock was hell-bent on falling back asleep. As much as John tried to keep him awake, even though he needed sleep, John was going to have a difficult time carrying him into the flat if need be, Sherlock was unconscious every other moment.

At one turn, the cab swerved a bit sharply and Sherlock, unconscious and uncontrolling, slumped sideways from the momentum.

John just managed to catch the limp detective before Sherlock could smack his head on the door.

"You..." John started, although he was unsure what he wanted to say. Looking down at Sherlock's sleeping- peaceful- face made John smile faintly.

At least Sherlock was getting some rest.

However, John would never admit that he kept Sherlock in his arms all the way to the flat.

"Okay, Sherlock, you need to get up," John muttered, struggling to shift Sherlock's weight to pay the fare when the cab had stopped. "Wake up..." he murmured.

Sherlock muttered something unintelligible in reply, curling up. His fingers knitted into John's jumper and, for the second time, John hauled the clinging detective away from prying eyes with a very red face.

"I'm never going out with you again when you need a surgery," he muttered, looping one of Sherlock's arms around his own neck. "Come on, support a bit of your weight!" He snuck his arm around Sherlock's waist and managed, with a bit of difficulty, to unlock the door and get both of them back into their flat.

"Hmm..." Sherlock mumbled, opening his eyes again as John glanced sideways at him. "Your hands s'are cold..."

John frowned. "No, they're not. How can you even tell?" John's hands were securely knitted into Sherlock's coat.

"Dedu.." Sherlock trailed off.

"... Yeah, right, okay. Come on."

"... ction," Sherlock said, finishing the prior word.

"Brilliant. Come on."

They managed the stair set of stairs easily enough. Sherlock didn't complain and he managed to seem to grasp that he somewhat had to work with John to get upstairs.

Of course, all good things ended.

"John!"

Sherlock's sudden announcement, as they rounded the landing to tackle the second set of stairs, was so unexpected in the otherwise silent flat that John flinched.

"What?" he asked, looking at Sherlock again.

"Stop, stop, stop..." Sherlock struggled suddenly, and John's grasp on the squirming detective faltered for the half second that it took Sherlock to lose his balance.

It was only quick instincts on John's part that Sherlock did not crash to the floor.

Instead, _John_ hit the floor and Sherlock landed on his lap.

"Ow..." John muttered, trying to get his breath back.

"... Ow," Sherlock echoed, slumping against John's chest.

"No, you cannot 'ow'," John muttered, hooking his arms under Sherlock's armpits. "Your great lanky arse just collapsed on me; do not 'ow' me," he said, hauling the detective back to his feet.

"Ow, ow, ow, ow... ow," Sherlock retorted, a bit defiantly.

"Real mature."

"I am mature, I am very mature... Mature, mature, mature... Sort of like cheese."

John laughed out loud.

He had never, ever, witnessed Sherlock drunk. Sherlock said that he couldn't tolerate the taste of anything alcohol-related, not to mention the imperative fact that anything alcohol-related interferred with his mental processes. (John secretly suspected that Sherlock was a lightweight, though he wouldn't admit that. Sherlock would try to prove him wrong... or inevitably prove him right.)

So, this was a bit strange, but John would have to be stupid not to find it funny.

Finally, John managed to get the loopy detective into their sitting room.

"John!" Sherlock announced again.

This time, John didn't jump. "Yes?"

"This is our flat!" Sherlock said, eyes wide. "How did we... to our flat?"

"The cab ride...?"

"... Moriarty..." Sherlock mumbled, although his eyes fluttered closed again.

"No, no dangerous cabbies right now. You're okay."

"Shhhhh."

Sherlock placed his hand over John's mouth. John stared up at him, frowning, even if Sherlock couldn't see the frown.

"What are we doing?" John mumbled, moving Sherlock's hand away from his mouth.

Sherlock curled his fingers around the cuff of John's jacket. "Flat's bugged..."

John stared at him. This was so _bizarre_... "Yeah... Okay, well, your bedroom's not, so you go sleep and I'll handle the bugs."

"Hmm..."

This seemed to placate the suspicious detective, because he didn't argue as John half-dragged him back to the bedroom.

"Give me your hand," John said.

"What...?"

"If you'd like to take your coat off," John said. Sherlock placed his hand in John's awaiting one. "Now, try not to collapse for twenty seconds."

John removed one sleeve, and then the other, letting the heavy coat fall to the floor. Not any second too soon, because Sherlock collapsed backwards onto the bed immediately afterwards.

"Are we okay?" Sherlock mumbled, although his eyes were closed.

"Huh?" John was busy trying to get Sherlock's blazer off, although the detective wasn't cooperating with him now.

Sherlock didn't reply.

"Sherlock?"

"... Bugs..."

"Oh. Yeah." John finally managed to get the blazer away from Sherlock. "You're fine."

"Hmm..."

John smiled faintly.

He spent a few more moments trying to coax Sherlock to place his head on the pillow and snuggle under the blankets before he felt comfortable leaving him alone. Rest would do him good. He would wake up in pain, John was sure, but at least he'd be back to his senses.

John had just turned to walk away when he was met with resistance.

He glanced over his shoulder to find that Sherlock had looped his fingers around one of the belt loops on his jeans.

"Wha- Sherlock."

"'s only safe... my room. Mycroft's... a clot."

John had no idea how they had jumped from Moriarty and bugs to Mycroft being a clot. That wasn't particularly important, when he considered the fact that he couldn't _move_ from Sherlock's bedside.

"I'll be fine," he said, trying to dissuade Sherlock.

"Stay with me, idiot!"

John _did_ flinch this time. Sherlock's voice was less than pleasant and John had barely ever heard the consulting detective lose his cool. And he was _not_ used to being called an idiot in that tone of voice. It was like Sherlock really meant it.

Of course he didn't, John knew, but it didn't stop him from taking a step back and sinking onto the edge of the bed.

"Okay... It's okay. I'm right here," John said hesitantly.

Sherlock's fingers curled against the back of John's jacket, wrenching him closer.

_"Sherlock!"_

"Sorry..." Sherlock mumbled, although he didn't loosen his grip. "Dangerous..."

Sherlock's voice trailed off and he didn't continue this time. John reckoned that he'd fallen back asleep. Unconsciousness aside, the detective's fingers were still knitted in the back of his jacket.

John sighed quietly.

He reckoned that Sherlock was a clingy drunk.

* * *

**Oh. For someone who prides in writing characters in character, this was a nightmare. I've read plenty of drugged/drunk stories where Sherlock declares his love or is all Jawwwwnnn... and, no, I just... don't think that's particularly correct... This is the reason that I didn't write this until after months of contemplating. =p That being said, I'm not particularly unhappy with it. (I didn't even intend to write a blurb about honeybees; it just happened and I was very happy.)**

**Thanks!**


	7. Chapter 7

John had thought that getting Sherlock back to sleep would end the problem that was the drugged detective.

It didn't.

Sherlock _had_ fallen asleep quickly, but he had been awake since then. On and off, just enough to grate on John's nerves, and on the last particular instance, Sherlock had gotten out of bed and gotten as far as the bathroom before finding something manageable to throw at the bathroom window. Thankfully, what Sherlock had found to throw was a roll of toilet paper. Unthankfully, it unrolled the entire way and John was left with a spectacular, winding mess.

He had gotten the detective back to bed- with much complaining on Sherlock's behalf- and had just cleaned up the mess in the bathroom when he had walked back into the bedroom to find Sherlock sprawled out on the floor.

With much toil, John had managed to haul the then-sleeping detective back into bed, albeit if he ended up stretched out at the wrong end.

And then, when John was exhausted and his back was aching and he didn't think he could handle much more of this drugged Sherlock lark, he had found that he wasn't able to go to bed with a conscious that wasn't guilty.

What if Sherlock is doing this? What if Sherlock is doing that?

his mind had whispered, and feeling fed up to a point of being near tears (and damning his doctors instincts), John had stumbled back to Sherlock's room and taken a seat on the floor by his bed.

There, he was finally able to fall asleep.

He had been awake every few hours, like an internal alarm clock, checking on Sherlock's fever and making sure the detective was still asleep. He always was and John was always jealous of that peaceful look on his face.

Now, John had been awakened by Sherlock slurring his name. He was just _so_ exhausted and _so_ tired of taking care of the detective that never a day in his life once said _thank you_.

"John...? What- Ow."

John blinked hard and, taking a deep breath, looked back towards Sherlock.

The look on the detective's face was by far enough to make any previous annoyance that John had felt just melt away.

Sherlock was sitting up slightly, propped up on an elbow. His hand was pressed, lightly, against his jaw. He was pale and there was a look of unguarded pain twisting his features.

"Hey... Don't touch... It'll just irritate them further..." John murmured sympathetically.

Sherlock blinked and the pain was- mostly- gone from his gaze as he looked towards John. "John? What-" He seemed to wince before taking a deep breath. "What happened..."

John carefully got to his feet, nearly cringing at the noise of his joints popping. "You had your wisdom teeth out, you remember? All four of them... Three were infected and they took the other out for prevention measures..." John explained slowly, watching Sherlock trying very hard to process the information. He was clearly still woozy. "They gave you some powerful anesthesia, so you might be out of it for a bit..."

"Teeth... right..." Sherlock murmured, ghosting his fingertips along his jaw. "It hurts..." he mumbled, although he didn't seem entirely conscious of the statement, and John's heart felt like it was shattering.

He'd said it- to himself- once before: Sherlock in pain was one of the worst things for him to witness. It was difficult for John to handle anyone that he couldn't help in pain, but Sherlock was worse than the average patient.

The average patient would whine and cry and groan, look for a course of treatment or ask for help. Sherlock didn't. Sherlock tried to suffer in silence, to internalize all of the pain and suffering, to ignore it... and it broke John's heart when Sherlock was suffering right in front of him and he couldn't do a single thing.

That was always the one thing he hated about being a doctor.

If you can't ease their suffering, you have to let them suffer.

John had always dreaded the moment where one of the patients would be rushed into the med tent, missing an arm or a leg or with severe bleeding and traumatising blood loss. Advances in medicine and technology was one thing, but if someone was too badly hurt...

John shivered, his fingers creeping instinctively to the old wound on his shoulder. He rubbed at it idly, focussing on Sherlock instead.

"I can give you your antibiotics and some more paracetamol... Getting you something to eat and drink wouldn't be a bad thing, either."

Sherlock sighed quietly, sitting up entirely. "Why am I sleeping at the wrong end of my bed, John...?"

"Because you were trying to sleep on the floor, saying that your bed was, quote, 'too marshmallowy'. I managed to get you onto your bed and didn't care from there."

Sherlock was frowning now. "What else did I say?"

"Er... something about bees and Moriarty and our flat being bugged and Mycroft being a clot," John murmured, recalling the statements.

"Well, I wasn't entirely out of it, then," Sherlock muttered, at the mention of Mycroft.

"No," John said seriously, "you were entirely out of it. You were really sodding out of it."

Sherlock looked at him for a moment before shrugging slightly. "Where's my medication...?" he asked, seeming to not want to further venture the topic of his unconscious ramblings.

"I'll get it... Hang on."

John retrieved the medication and let Sherlock take the proper dosage, handing him a glass of water to go with it.

"Is there anything you want to eat? I can make you oatmeal, well, no, that might not be good, actually... Applesauce, mashed potatoes, ice cream..."

Sherlock groaned.

"Look, you can't chew, so it needs to be this stuff. Pick one."

"Fine... Mashed potatoes with melted cheese and sour cream, cinnamon applesauce, and a peanut butter milkshake."

"... Or pick all three," John muttered, although he turned and started for the hall. He paused, though, remembering something he had read in the information that the dentist had given Sherlock. "Oh, and leave your gums alone. You've still got an infection and you still can get all sorts of problems, like dry socket. They're going to bleed, so we've got a ton of gauze, but you can also use a wet tea bag. So, let me know if anything happens and I'll do what I can."

Sherlock just grunted as he stumbled across the room towards the bathroom.

* * *

"Are you finally pleased?" John asked, watching Sherlock shovel mashed potatoes into his mouth.

"Wif wha'?" Sherlock asked, looking up at John.

"Brunch," John said tiredly, sinking into the chair opposite Sherlock.

Sherlock swallowed. "Oh. Yes."

"Good..." John rest his forehead against the palm of his hand, massaging his forehead slightly. He had this terrible headache... He blamed it on lack of sleep.

"You look terrible," Sherlock commented, stirring his milkshake briefly. "Were you awake all night?"

"Taking care of you," John retorted.

"Oh." Sherlock took a bite of the milkshake. "This is good."

John looked up. "Why do you sound so surprised? I _can_ cook... or wrangle ice cream and peanut butter..."

"I figured," Sherlock murmured, taking another bite. "But you never do."

"I rarely have time..."

Sherlock hummed in reply, continuing on making his way through brunch. John watched him tiredly, although he was glad that Sherlock seemed to be feeling a bit better with medication and food in his system.

"Take it easy," John said, noting Sherlock flinch at one point. "It isn't going to go anywhere."

Sherlock gingerly raised his fingers to his jaw. "When does the swelling go away?"

John reached forward and wrenched Sherlock's fingers away from his face. "Stop messing with it."

Sherlock huffed and turned back to brunch.

"Anyway... the swelling could last for a week." John glanced up. "There's a ton of information that the dentist gave me for you. You should read it."

Sherlock only rolled his eyes. "Dull."

John sighed. "Well, I'm glad you're feeling better, at least. It seems like your fever's gone down..."

"Antibiotics will do that," Sherlock commented.

"Well, that's the point, yeah." John rubbed his eyes tiredly.

"Why were you taking care of me all night?"

John peered through his fingers at Sherlock, frowning. "Because, Sherlock, you were not... well, you weren't suitable to be walking around by yourself."

"I thought I was sleeping."

"You were _supposed_ to be. You tried to break the bathroom window on one occasion. I'm thankful that all you threw was a roll of toilet paper."

Sherlock was frowning again. John could practically see the cogs turning in Sherlock's mind; the detective was probably trying to figure out why or at least remember. John could also see that Sherlock was getting nothing in the memory department.

"Ridiculous," Sherlock murmured. "They administered anesthesia."

"Yes, and you woke up after the surgery. And you called me your _partner_, which always has a sodding brilliant ring to it when you're two blokes in a dentist office. And then you fell asleep in the cab and decided that I was a pretty great pillow, and refused to stop clinging to me long enough for me barely to pay the fare!"

Sherlock had paused with a spoonful of potatoes halfway to his mouth when John mentioned the fact about the cab. Of course, the detective fluidly completed the motion a second later, like nothing had been said, and swallowed the mouthful of potatoes before speaking.

"You are my partner."

John groaned. "I know, but can't you say that I'm your, I don't know- _friend_?"

Sherlock huffed moodily, wincing slightly. "I don't care for the term."

"Oh, Heaven forbid that Sherlock Holmes should have a friend!"

Sherlock's lips twitched towards something that looked like a smirk. "Go to bed, John."

John sighed, feeling his shoulders slump as the anger left just as quickly as it had attacked his mind in the first place. "It's nine in the morning, Sherlock. I just woke up."

"And clearly you're exhausted, so do please go to sleep before you have Mrs. Hudson in a flutter with your raised voice."

"You know, for someone post-op, you're incredibly cheeky. Doesn't it hurt to talk?"

Sherlock shrugged slightly.

"Of course it does. You're just too fond of your own voice to stay quiet." John stood, stretching. As much as it wasn't proper, John was simply too tired to not go back to bed. "You should be resting, too," he murmured, brushing his hand against Sherlock's forehead. It was still warm, although an improvement over what it had been. "You'll get some sleep?"

"I slept all night."

"No, you didn't. You might think you did, but you didn't. Please?"

Sherlock sighed. "Fine, John. Whatever you want."

"You don't have your fingers crossed?"

Sherlock's eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

"... Okay, you probably don't know about that one," John murmured, turning and trudging for the stairs.

* * *

**John's exhausted and Sherlock, as usual, loves the sound of his own voice. Just a normal day... sort of. **

**Probably one more chapter... Not entirely sure...**

**Thank you!**


	8. Chapter 8

When John woke up, it was nearly four in the afternoon. Properly disgusted with the fact, John grabbed his dressing gown and headed downstairs for a shower. After he checked on Sherlock, of course.

Incidentally, both options went hand-in-hand, as John found Sherlock leaning over the bathroom sink.

"Sherlock? What's wrong?"

Sherlock just shook his head, spitting blood into the sink.

"Hey, hey, hey, don't do that," John said, crossing the room. "You're going to interfere with the blood clots."

"There's blood in my mouth, John. What else would you like me to do with it?" Sherlock retorted irritably.

John picked up the nearby mug and filled it with cool water. "Here. Rinse. You need to put some gauze against those. It'll help the bleeding."

Sherlock rinsed his mouth out, setting the mug down again. "I'm not putting gauze in my mouth. That's disgusting."

"It's that or a tea bag."

"Do we actually _have_ tea bags?"

"We do, actually."

Sherlock sighed. "Where did you put the gauze...?"

John smiled. "Study desk. How's your fever?"

Sherlock muttered something unintelligible and walked out of the bathroom.

John shook his head slightly and, resisting the urge to follow Sherlock to make sure he wouldn't experiment on the bleeding of his mouth or whatever, John just closed the bathroom door.

He'd let Sherlock have a bit of privacy, for now.

John didn't linger in the shower. He had just shampooed his hair and was ready to step back under the rush of water when there was a knock on the bathroom door.

Sherlock usually didn't knock. (To be fair, Sherlock didn't usually bother him during a shower.)

"What?" John called over the rush of the shower.

"Am I supposed to be nauseous?" was the weak reply.

"Er..." John stepped under the water, closing his eyes. "Did you check the information that I brought home?"

"No..."

"What do you expect from me? I'm a _doctor_, not a dentist!" John called.

John heard Sherlock's groan of annoyance.

"Well, look, you have an infection, so it's possible. Avoid vomiting if you can help it, though... It'll bother your gums."

"Well, I'm not going to vomit if I can help it," Sherlock retorted.

John sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, chasing away the traces of any lingering shampoo. "Give me a second!"

He was out of the shower in the few minutes, dried off and clad in his dressing gown, as he opened the bathroom door. Sherlock was leaning against the hallway, looking more pale than usual, and highly uncomfortable.

"How bad is it?" John asked, crossing the distance between them and laying a hand on Sherlock's forehead.

"Could be better."

"I'm sure... I need to take your temperature. I just got out of the shower, so compared to the hot water, you don't feel warm. I'm sure you probably still have a fever."

"Shouldn't the antibiotic make it go away...?" Sherlock mumbled.

"The fever and nausea?" John asked, pawing through the counter to find their thermometer. "Yeah, it will. But you can't expect it to work all at once and- aha, there it is-" he dislodged the thermometer from behind three different bottles of mouthwash- "you need to be resting or you're not going to be feeling better at all. Did you sleep at all?"

"Yes," Sherlock murmured. "I only woke up because I tasted blood in my mouth..."

"So, you weren't awake long before I woke up?" John asked, disinfecting the thermometer with a good dose of alcohol.

Sherlock shook his head.

"Okay, good," John said. He rinsed the thermometer and dried it off, handing it to Sherlock.

Sherlock powered the device on, staring at the display sulkily for a moment before placing it under his tongue.

John sighed and glanced at himself in the mirror. He still looked tired. Inexplicably, he _was_ still tired. Apparently a night taking care of an incoherent Sherlock Holmes did that.

The thermometer beeped and John took it before Sherlock could. His eyes immediately were drawn to the temperature display- thirty-nine point one- before he pressed the power button again.

"It's at thirty-nine."

"Not too bad," Sherlock said, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead.

"Not too good," John muttered. "You have a headache?"

Sherlock nodded infinitesimally.

"Have you had paracetamol lately?"

"No... I don't really want any, either."

John had just picked up the bottle of paracetamol, but now he looked at Sherlock. "What? Why? It's the only thing that's going to help your headache, asides from the antibiotics."

"Because I don't think it'll stay down," Sherlock retorted.

"Oh." John fumbled with the paracetamol for a moment. Either Sherlock dealt with his own headache without the paracetamol, or took the paracetamol and maybe ended up vomiting. Considering a headache was probably less worse than Sherlock vomiting and irritating his gums... Well, neither option was good. "Well, paracetamol later, if you can wait."

"I'll wait," Sherlock said automatically.

"Go back to sleep," John said, closing the medicine cabinet. He fixed his dressing gown, tying the sash a bit more carefully. "Well. I'm going to get dressed. I'll make you a cuppa afterwards. Back to bed."

"Chamomile," Sherlock said, traipsing back towards his bedroom.

"Fine." John turned away, walking to the stairs and to his bedroom.

After he had dressed, John returned to the kitchen to make Sherlock that cup of chamomile tea. However, when he entered Sherlock's bedroom, he found the detective already asleep, sprawled out across the bed.

It never failed to hit John just how _vulnerable_ Sherlock looked when he slept.

John shook his head, setting the steaming cup of tea on the nightstand. He hesitated for a moment before draping the blanket carefully over Sherlock's sleeping form.

Sherlock mumbled something under his breath, curling up. John froze, holding his breath- he didn't want to wake him up, he really didn't- but Sherlock sighed sleepily and seemed to nod off again.

John sighed, stepping back. He turned for the hall, planning on finding the newspaper to read or something on the telly to watch.

"Than's for the tea..." Sherlock slurred, making John jump.

John looked back at Sherlock, prepared to say something along the lines of _I thought you were sleeping!_ when the gentle snoring of his flatmate reached his ears.

John smiled faintly and closed Sherlock's bedroom door with a quiet _click_.

* * *

**While I was writing this, I was thinking there'd be another chapter. But, now I think this is the final chapter, and yes... it is. So, thank you for all who have followed this story and enjoyed it, thank you for the favs and follows and reviews! It means a ton!**

**I do not own _Sherlock_.**

**Thank you!**


End file.
